


fortune favors the not-so bold

by HelmetParty



Series: TURN: Bingo [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate alternate title: thanks @ the french for birthing laf, Alternate title: Arin writes cliche love story, Coffee Shops, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, M/M, Modern Era, Obligitory coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 05:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15308451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelmetParty/pseuds/HelmetParty
Summary: Lafayette comes to America to see it all and find his calling.Hamilton is just here.





	fortune favors the not-so bold

**Author's Note:**

> Tobeymaguire on Tumblr! Reposting to other sites with credit, translations, and promo are appreciated!

 To clarify, Lafayette really didn't care about working as much as he cared about seeing America. But he was going to be held up in New York for a while anyway, he thought he may as well see about getting an exceedingly short part-time job. It just happened that the people at this shop, the  _Paragon Teapot Tearoom,_ we're also from France and allowed him to work 'under the table' so to speak. It was quite a niche place, stylized in its own right, somewhat reminiscent of home in its decor. The owner was born and raised in France, while his daughter and two sons spoke French but birthed in America. The owner, a man called Jean-Joël Marchant, albeit rarely in the shop as he tended to other scattered doings, was quite nice. Whilst in the term of Lafayette's employment he came in rather often than he did otherwise. He was told this by his daughter, Caroline. "He comes in just for you, you know," she mentioned one day. "New York is a melting pot, but rarely do we meet other French natives." Jean would, when business was rather dull, sit behind the counter in a distinguished and washed-out looking chair that Lafayette wasn't sure he had seen before. He would speak in French and tell Lafayette of his times back in France, how he hasn't been there in decades, and that he misses the capital. "The one thing I don't miss is the smell," he joked, a hearty laugh emerging from his throat. "Smells like piss in Paris." 

 Lafayette enjoyed the man around. It felt nice, natural, and for a short time, Lafayette was settled. He felt content, at least at this moment. And, whilst working at the Paragon, he was able to meet many different people; including one that caught his eye, for a few reasons.

 There was a man that came in every so often, maybe every other day. His hair was barely shoulder length and penny brown, often tied up into a loose ponytail that rested gently on his neck. His face was strong, boxed like it could cut you, really. He carried a brown leather bag sometimes, but more often than not simply walking in with books and papers tucked under his arm. He set up in the same space every single time if it was open, and if it wasn't, there was always a look of obvious discontent as if his name was written on it; like it was his. He wore plain clothes, sometimes the same thing twice in a row; something Lafayette didn't really notice until he started being aware of the man in general. He was quiet in his own right, never talking or making conversation with anyone else, perhaps on account of his work, whatever that was, or maybe he was shy. Lafayette didn't know the deal, but sometimes when it was flat or empty in the shop, he would sit and stare, trying to get a glimpse of what the man was working so intently on for hours upon hours.

 It really wasn't personal. Lafayette was just bored and rather intrigued.

 It became commonplace for no particular reason that the man would walk in, settle down, and just get to work. It happened once by accident, the man didn't order anything, so Lafayette figured to do it for him; he ordered the same thing each day, often refilling every hour or two, or sometimes even every thirty minutes when he looked tired. He brought the man's drink over, to which he was shocked, and said a quiet 'thank you.' He tried to pay for it, he pulled out his wallet and everything, but Lafayette stopped him. "It's on the house," he said, "No worries." The man looked somewhat uncomfortable but he accepted the gesture and nodded slightly to show his thanks. This became commonplace, when Lafayette worked, to not have to ask. (Though, he did pay everytime afterward, even when Lafayette offered to have it on the house.)

 Lafayette had learned, just by glimpses, that the man was studying law; and not the easy stuff either. It seemed complicated at best, he had never seen so many numbers outside of subjects like math. 

 "Seems like your plate is full," Lafayette says once after bringing the man a refill. "What university are you in?"

 Its small talk, mostly, just to start a conversation. It had been weeks and yet he didn't know his name. He figured asking about something as simple as this should get them talking. The man doesn't look up from his work. "I graduated from Columbia University." His tone is almost mono, but the man seemed somewhat happy to be asked. "I'm studying law on my own."

 "Oh," is all Lafayette can muster. He  _really_  didn't expect an answer like that. It opened a lot more doors then it closed. "I've never heard of someone doing that, studying outside of school." It was meant to be a lighthearted joke, nothing more than a wisecrack, but the man's face contorted to displeasure. "You must not know many learned persons, then." 

 Lafayette is almost instantly turned off to this man. Really. What an asshole thing to say.

 He begins to walk away, back to his post at the counter when a hand reaches for his wrist. "Wait," he says, in a quieter tone. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired." Lafayette nods, and notes the man's  _almost_  sympathetic face, "It's fine," he mentions back. "Didn't mean to say something I shouldn't have." 

 "I'm Alexander, by the way. Alexander Hamilton." 

 "Lafayette," he returns. The two exchange a look before Alexander sits back down in his chair, giving a half smile to Lafayette as he turns to go back to his post.

 Its only over the course of the next week that they get to know more. Instead of coming in every other day or every so often, nearly everyday Hamilton comes into the shop; even if its just momentarily, to grab a drink and go. Their interactions vary, depending on the mood each patron is in; Lafayette learns his bounds, Hamilton learns his, however, Hamilton is the typical one to push them. Nonetheless, the men become friends and quickly as well. It's not even a weeks end before they've composed inside jokes, to which they often say and laugh at while other customers look on in misery at their now loud and often boisterous conversations.

 "I should show you around the city," Hamilton offers one day, sitting at the counter directly this time instead of his typical spot in the corner next to the window. "I can't believe you haven't even do anything while you're here."

 "This isn't a place I intend to be for much longer," Lafayette is getting ready to close shop, counting money made that day. "The rest of America beckons. I've never been one for cities anyway."

 It's sudden and its quick, but for a short moment Alexander looks almost heartbroken. This was the first time that he's asked, or even suggested contact outside of the shop. 

 "When are you leaving?" Alex says, his voice quieter. Lafayette turns from the money and the cash register to look Hamilton in the eyes, and he sighs. "Sometime soon, I suppose. I'm not really on any time constraint, though I have to admit I grow restless." Hamilton looks to the side and slumps down a bit. This time, this action is obvious and seems somewhat overstated. From the time since Lafayette has known him, Alexander has a way of showing how he's feeling - which is typically outright and outspoken, though on occasion he tries to show it through action so he is not the one to bring it up.

 "Are you sad about that?" Lafayette tries to joke, a soft smile on his face. "Will you miss me?" 

 Alexander looks back up and smiles too. "Well, maybe," he says, chuckling. "Maybe not so much if you'll let me take you out tonight." 

 Lafayette is almost thrown off, but he keeps himself under wraps. "Tonight?", he reiterates. "Really?"

 "Yeah," Alexander stands up, "Nothing too intense. We could just go out for dinner, or whatever you'd like," he leaves the situation open to whatever is preferred, and it feels nice. "How about back to your house?" Lafayette suggests, finally putting the cash register business to rest, grabbing the keys from his bag. "We could just hang out. Besides, I'm intrigued by what the great Alexander's house looks like."

 Instantly Hamilton puts on a face of a dilemma. He seems somewhat anxious now like Lafayette had mentioned a forbidden word or phrase.

 "I, uh," Hamilton trips over his words and he seems incredibly uncomfortable. Lafayette interjects before Alex has to say anything else. "Sorry, too personal? I didn't mean to-"

 "No," Hamilton interrupts, "It's just that...well, my apartment isn't that great. I fear your vision of me might be damaged." 

 Lafayette doesn't know whether he should laugh or what. Such a statement that Lafayette would be affected by such trivial things such as living space is comical at best. To be fair, however, it's not like he grew up having to worry about money or anything of the such. Even as an orphan at thirteen he had plenty of money, always a roof, always food. He liked things a certain way, if he had his own house, but didn't care much when it came to just living day to day or where his friends took residence. He had style, but wasn't opposed or disgusted by others', nor was he caught up in any of it.

 It offended him, almost, that Hamilton would assume otherwise.

 "Nothing can change the way I view you, idiot," even now he jokes. "Especially not housing. In fact, I'm all the more interested now."

 Hamilton is taken off guard, but he nods. "Well, when you put it that way."

 They both exchange a smile, and head on their way. Hamilton, being a gentleman, opens the door for Lafayette who proceeds to lock it behind him. It was an honor that, even as a temporary position, the owner allowed him to have a set of keys.

 The sun is only beginning to set, and this is when the city comes to life. It's more vibrant than the daytime, brighter, more alive. Even on the outskirts its clear that this city was indeed a nocturnal one, which is hard to say if you saw the traffic in the daytime to insinuate that nighttime is somehow worse, implying it even could be. But New York was, indeed, a city of magic, even if that magic is making the city somehow even more crowded and clogged. Luckily, on the outskirts, it's not so bad, at least considered to the heart of it all. Even still, its a lot for a man born in fucking  _Auvergne_. 

 It's somewhat cold as the wind picks up, but it's lucky that Alexander's apartment is only a few blocks. It's in a back alley, sort of, off of the main road and behind a few storage houses. There is a set of winding stairs above a repair shop, which was now closed for business permanently as the sign indicated, and easily missed if you didn't know where you were going. Alexander takes out a single key from his back pocket and unlocks the door, which creaks as its opened. Lafayette is almost hesitant to follow him in, it looked dark and foreboding, however, he had no reason to distrust or assume any malicious intent.

 As they enter, Hamilton flicks on a light from the wall. It takes a few seconds before it turns on, however, and even then it's a dim-ish light. Its stained yellow and makes the place look cozy, really, and this is a warm sight for Lafayette who was living in a plain white hotel room for the past few weeks. Even though its definitely something he wasn't expecting, the seemingly one-room apartment is, in reality, quite nice.

 Alexander takes off his jacket and sets it on a yellow-white chair on the right corner, then offers to take Lafayette's, who which he complies.

 "Wow, Alexander. I can't say I expected this." He looked around, arms crossed, a smile on his face. "And you thought I would be disappointed."

 "You should be," Hamilton says, cleaning up various things as Lafayette hesitates at the door. "This place is a mess, and not exactly great in its own regard." 

 Lafayette puts a hand on Alexander's shoulder. "Alex," he says, his voice quiet. "I like it. It's nice."

 Hamilton smiles, too. He feels somewhat comforted by Lafayette's words.

 "Can I get you anything?" he asks, rushing to his fridge, which looked washed out and old as if it came with the place. "I have soda, milk, uh," he's trying to scrounge for something better, so Lafayette interjects.

 "How about some wine?"

 Alexander is caught completely off guard. He closes the fridge door, almost frantically. "Wine,  _wine_. Sure." He opens up a cupboard above his sink and begins to move bottles around. While he's doing that, Lafayette looks around a bit more. Hamilton's place was plain, surely, but also distinguished in ways. His desk, which was positioned to the left in the corner, next to a window, was the most intriguing. It had papers scattered about, but mostly tidy and well kept. Lafayette didn't want to snoop too much, but it didn't feel wrong to move them about just to see what he was writing. It seemed mostly like work, anyways. He notices, though, at the bottom of a particular pile of law papers, there is one of poems by the looks of it. Talking about someone called  _Laurens_. He can only read a tidbit before Hamilton comes over, two wine glasses in hand, filled with a flowery-scented red liquid. 

 "Apologies," Lafayette says before Alex can talk. "Was snooping a bit."

 Hamilton shuffles the paper back into a somewhat orderly pile, not smiling. Lafayette senses he's, perhaps, wandered into the wrong territory. 

 It seems to pass though, Alexander seemingly returns to his normal self, gesturing for Lafayette to join him on the couch. The couch itself is of the same type as the chair to the right, brownish yellow with light pink flowers in the cushion. Lafayette thinks this is nice, albeit old-fashioned, and imagines it was likely either a hand-me-down or came with the place too. It didn't seem like Alex to buy this for himself, but he was learning plenty of things about Hamilton this week.

* * *

 

 As the wine flows, so does their mouths. 

 "Are you  _kidding_  me?" Hamilton says, laughing, his cheeks bright pink. "Please, say it again. The whole thing."

 " _Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette,_ " he says, somewhat stumbling as he laughs. "I was baptized like a Spaniard, with the name of every conceivable saint who might offer me more protection in battle."

 The night goes on and, to Lafayette's surprise, neither he nor Alex has looked at their phones, or seemed uncomfortable. 

 Which is a sight if he's ever seen one, typically his face is buried in it.

 There is a quiet pause between drinking and talking where both parties simply  _are_. Lafayette has come to recognize that Hamilton is not afraid by eye contact, something that even Lafayette struggles with, though he feels easy and complacent with him. They sit for a few moments, simply looking at each other, nothing, in particular, going on.

 "It's getting late," Lafayette says, double tapping his phone simply to see the time. "I surely should be getting home."

 "Back to your hotel, you mean," Hamilton says, putting his now empty glass on the table next to him. "Please, stay."

 Lafayette felt himself slipping down a road he wasn't sure he would come out of.

 "I'm afraid I wouldn't want to intrude, Alexander," there's a hint of something else in his voice, he still hasn't broken eye contact. "It would be ungentlemanly of me to force you to accommodate."

 "Nonsense," Alex says, almost insulted. "It would please me if you would stay, but I won't force you."

 Lafayette tries to work out what Alex wants. Even in this short time, he's come to know him more and more, and the man seems to be an absolute enigma despite being outspoken about everything he thinks, believes and feels. Even now, looking directly into his face, hearing his words from his own mouth, he's unsure.

 "I don't suppose you have two beds," he asks. "Should I sleep on the couch?"

 "No, I don't have two beds, but I do believe one is good enough for two if you'd like to see it."

 Unsure before, he's sure now.

 "Well, if you insist," Lafayette says. "But I'm not sleepy."

 Hamilton smiles. "Me neither."

* * *

 It's morning, early morning when Alexander wakes up and Lafayette is gone. He rolls over, expecting him to be laying there, but he isn't, and he panics. Almost instantly he hops from his bed, worried that Lafayette had left without saying goodbye - which, he assumed, would be what he gets. This is why you don't fall for f-

 Alexander exists his bedroom, and finds Lafayette in the kitchen, cooking something on the stove. "Oh," is all the French man says, eyeing Hamilton up and down. "Well, good morning. I hope you don't mind I'm using your kitchen."

 He's caught off guard, once again. "No, not a-at all," he suddenly relaxes, one arm going to scratch the back of his head. "I, I thought you left."

 Lafayette turns from his cooking to look at Alex, chuckling quietly. "How absolutely cliche," he says, in fun. "I wouldn't leave like that. Figured I'd stay to leech off of your food."

 It's all in good fun, and once his tired mind realizes that, Alexander laughs too.

 "You really should put some pants on, or anything," Lafayette mentions. "Don't get me wrong, Its not an unwelcome sight, but window's open."

 

 Alexander can't help but smile. 

 

 Lafayette can't help but stay, at least for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticism appreciated, no matter the nature of such.


End file.
